I find myself tucked into the corner of the couch, attempting to appear relaxed while my knees dig into the fabric beneath my elbows. My voice strives to be both light and commanding as I address three young children, trying not to reveal the underlying fear or worry that weighs on me. I knew this moment would arrive, a time when I would have to rearrange familiar words into new, confusing sentences. I anticipated the questions, the tears, and the difficulty of it all, but the reality is even stranger than I had envisioned.
Today, I sit with my daughters, all under the age of six, explaining that their father is about to undergo brain surgery. He is unwell but will get better. Yes, it will hurt, but only for a short while. Yes, he’ll have stitches, right on top of the scar they know only as a part of his existence. And yes, they can draw him as many pictures as they desire.
Our conversation is momentarily diverted when the youngest recalls my explanation of Weight Watchers and inquires if Daddy will earn a lot of points for his hospital stay. The only acceptable answer for her is “Yes.”
They ask when the surgery will take place. Daddy tells them it will be after Mommy’s birthday. I wonder if the surgeon will allow that and mention I wouldn’t mind if both events fell on the same day. The children don’t fully grasp the situation but can see we are trying to be brave, even as we encourage them to feel safe. They settle onto Daddy’s lap, expressing their desire for him to get well soon, and he assures them that he will.
I pick at my cuticles, leaning into the corner of the couch, trying to maintain a sense of calm. I smile and suggest that since Daddy is home today, we can visit a playground, and even go to their favorite restaurant afterwards.
While we’re having dinner, one of the twins spots a flyer with a pink ribbon. “It says she has cancer, Daddy. Is that like you?” His attempt to respond is a simple, “Yes, like me,” but he doesn’t delve into how people react when he shares this news, or how they look at me. His voice is soft, quiet enough that the nearby woman doesn’t turn to look. As I walk to the salad bar, I tune into the radio, grateful that the scar on his bald head is hidden from her view.
Later, as we prepare for bed, the two-year-old asks, “Is Daddy sick?” using the same tone she employs to check if I’m dressed. “Yes, sweetie. Daddy has a tumor in his brain. He’s going to have surgery and stay in the hospital for a while, and we’ll visit him and draw him lots of pictures.”
On the drive home from ballet class, she asks, “Is Daddy getting his stitches now?” I respond, “No, honey. He’ll get them after his surgery.” “Why is he having surgery?” She wants to know. “To remove a little tumor from his brain.”
These questions are becoming familiar, yet each time I utter those words, I feel a pang in my chest. The children crave certainty and routine, something solid to cling to. I practice the route from ballet to the pharmacy repeatedly, filling prescriptions for anti-seizure and anti-anxiety medications, forcing myself to keep my composure as the pharmacist smiles at me.
I refrain from sharing with the pharmacist that just over seven years ago, I had made a different pharmacist cry due to repeated errors with his medication. The girls ask Daddy about his stitches again, and he mentions they might use staples instead. The memories come flooding back, fresh and vivid.
As he explains what staples are, I recall washing blood out from between metal ridges after he returned home from the hospital. I wonder how the children will react when they see the scabby mess I’ll reveal when I change his dressings. I contemplate the challenges ahead—a Daddy who can’t lift them or play with them after surgery, whether we’ll need a stool for him in the shower, and if he’ll have to use the cane that has been gathering dust.
I feel too worn and numb to decipher my emotions, but I don’t feel fear. Instead, I’m resigned and determined, accepting that my husband is preoccupied with details of our family finances. Deep down, I start looking into finding a job to ease his load. I take phone calls, write emails, and push my own concerns aside as I focus on what needs to be done.
As I sort through a binder of my husband’s medical records, I add new lined sheets for notes and remove the cards of doctors we no longer need. I’m doing all of this while my two-year-old searches for her beloved frog blanket, dressed only in a pull-up and sneakers. I remind her that outside shoes belong outside, not in the house, yet I’m indifferent to her defiance. All this occurs while I’m on the phone with a friend who specializes in neuro-oncology, recalling how she hugged me goodbye after delivering the devastating news that my husband’s cancer had returned.
One of the twins is decorating the door with pictures for Daddy to see when he gets home. I think he should consider taking an early disability leave instead of trying to juggle work and his health in the days leading up to his surgery. I’m relieved when he agrees.
From two rooms away, I can hear him explaining to the girls, “Our bodies are amazing.” He reassures them that his skin will heal. He even tells them that the surgeons could be women, emphasizing that girls can do all the important jobs just like boys. Every moment is a chance to teach.
Standing in the shower, I lean my cheek against the wall, feeling the hot water splash against my neck. It’s not hot enough, and the wall feels lukewarm. I want to cry, but I’m unsure why. Instead, I wash my hair and sit down on the bed while the twins choose my outfit. My hip locks up unexpectedly, and I stumble in the heels they’ve fastened on me.
There are over 122 messages waiting for my response, most of them short notes telling me how strong they believe I am and that they are praying for me. I wonder if that’s contradictory and close my inbox.
A tightness grips my chest, resembling panic but not quite. I’m not panicking. I’m prepared. I’ve been preparing for this for seven years, nine months, and 28 days. I’ve been ready since the first time I uttered the words, “I’m his fiancée,” standing in the emergency room, looking at his paralyzed face. I’ve been prepared since I insisted he not convince me that after 15 hours of engagement, I wasn’t bound to our marriage.
I grapple with this readiness. I understand cancer and surgery through the lens of urgency, shock, and tearful calls, but I struggle to remain calm amidst the calm. I feel like a fraud as my calm demeanor is echoed back to me. Yet, I know I am not panicking.
Our children remain unaffected. No tears have been shed, except for a few from my husband in the aftermath of our diagnosis and my own in moments of solitude when I scroll through the flood of supportive messages in my inbox.
All my tears are hidden. There’s no reason to be afraid, I tell myself. There’s no need to ponder what else might occur. Daddy has brain cancer. It’s become our routine, our stability, our normal. The same email I sent announcing he had completed his last round of chemotherapy was also the one where I shared my first pregnancy news. The intertwining of parenthood and glioblastoma isn’t new; it’s just a reversal of roles.
I repeat to myself, “Daddy has brain cancer.” And I realize we’re all left wondering if I can truly be trusted when I insist, “He’s going to be just fine.”
In difficult times like these, it’s crucial to seek support and resources. For couples navigating their fertility journey, exploring options such as artificial insemination can be beneficial. Check out this detailed guide on couples’ fertility journey. Furthermore, understanding infertility is essential; the CDC provides excellent resources on this topic. For those supporting a partner while trying to conceive, this article from Celebrating Father’s Day offers helpful insights.
Summary:
Navigating life when a parent faces cancer can be daunting, especially for young children. The author recounts the challenges of explaining their father’s brain surgery and illness to their daughters, emphasizing the importance of maintaining a sense of normalcy and routine. Through moments of vulnerability, resilience, and family support, they illustrate the complex emotions that arise during such difficult times, all while remaining hopeful for a brighter future.